


Apricity

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Cuddling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles keeps having nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apricity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



His mother drops him off at the front of the school, where a woman in a tight white dress is waiting for them. Charles looks to Mother for any sort of a reaction, but her eyes seem somewhat glazed as she shakes the woman's hand. "I'm Emma, Mrs. Xavier. Emma Frost. Headmaster Shaw's assistant. And you must be the young Master Xavier then."

"Charles." He holds out his hand as well, and with some hesitation she takes it briefly.

"Would you like a tour of the school, Mrs. Xavier. The Headmaster informed me that you've not been here before. We'd be more than happy to."

"No, that's fine, dear. I must get going." To Charles she says, "Do behave yourself, Charles."

"As if I've ever not," Charles replies sourly.

Mother sighs. "Honestly Charles you would think I were sending you off to be tortured in some foreign land, the way you've been behaving."

"Yes, every boy dreams of being shipped off to boarding school when he becomes inconvenient to his mother's plans to remarry," Charles says, glancing out into the grounds as they start walking. There's a boy, leaning against a tree right at the front of the overlying woods, smoking. "That shouldn't be allowed," Charles mutters. "He'll set fire to something."

"I've tried explaining this to you before, that it's to be about your future, and nothing else." Charles doesn't point out to her, once again, that his future was all set out even at the school that required her to bear his presence in his house for more than three months a year, but she's already gripping his wrist in her _do not embarrass me in front of strangers, Charles Francis Xavier_ way, so he merely says, "I do appreciate you coming along, Mother. If only to ensure I won't run away again."

Miss Frost says, "Mrs Xavier, I'll show you out, shall I? Don't worry, we take good care of our boys here. Charles, Mister Quested will show you to your room afterwards, but first the Headmaster would like a word."

Charles hadn't even noticed the man previously, he'd been hovering so silently in the background. He grunts in response to Charles' tentative greeting and doesn't wait for Charles to catch up before he starts striding into the room. "So I'll see you then," Charles calls out to Mother's retreating back, but she doesn't turn around.

*

Headmaster Shaw has a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he seems friendly enough when he opens Charles' file and says, "You're a very intelligent young man, Master Xavier. Your grades are quite excellent."

"So I've been told."

"Not one for extra-curricular activities though," He frowns faintly at Charles' transcripts. "We do expect you to get an all around education, so not to worry, we will surely fix that." Charles must have looked faintly alarmed, because he grins. "Slowly. One day at a time." He stands up and says, "I was going to ask your dorm mate to show you to your room, but he seems to have forgotten our appointment. Nevertheless, Master Lehnsherr is a perfectly fine gentleman.."

"Lehnsherr?"

"Yes, Erik. Unfortunately, because you're enrolling so late in the year, his was the only room with a spare bed available." His hand is on the back of Charles' neck as he leads him out, and Charles barely manages not to shrug it off. "I wouldn't worry, Master Xavier. I'm certain you'll get along swimmingly. Miss Frost should be back by now. I'll get the dormmaster to bring you to your dorm, shall I."

*

The room's empty of its occupant, and in fact doesn't seem to be occupied at all. The only way Charles figures out which side is supposed to be his is by opening one of the desk drawers and finding pencils and pens neatly stacked inside, along with a notebook. He opens the book experimentally, but all the writing is in German. Charles closes the drawer and dumps his stuff over near the window, before he collapses in the bed. When he opens his eyes, a boy is standing at the door. He says, "You're Charles, right. Seb told me you'd be dorming with me this semester?"

"Seb?"

"Sorry, Headmaster Shaw." Charles must have continued to look confused, because he adds, "His first name's Sebastian."

"Ah," Charles says. "He seems nice. Uh, friendly. Does everyone get to call him by his first name?"

"No," Erik replies shortly. He walks into the room and slides open his drawer, placing the pack of cigarettes and lighter he takes from his pocket carefully inside.

"May I," Charles asks.

Erik sidles him a look, sliding his gaze from Charles' feet to the top of his head. "There's no smoking in the dorm. Besides, you hardly look the type."

"And what type might that be, may I ask." He sits up straight on the bed and crosses his arms defensively.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Charles says. "Fifteen," he amends. "Almost sixteen."

"This is the senior dorm." But he doesn't look surprised, only resigned. "Stay out of my things, Charles," Erik says, snapping the drawer shut with an audible click. "And we will get along fine."

"You can't be that much older than I am."

"I turned eighteen last week," Erik tells him, and that's the last thing he says, as he settles down at his desk and opens his books, doesn't even glance up the once at Charles.

Charles tries to make conversation, but Erik only grunts in response, and in the end Charles gives up and starts unpacking his belongings.

*

"So I heard you're the latest unfortunate soul to be forced to room with Lehnsherr."

"Sorry, what?" Charles blinks at the boy sitting next to him.

"Lehnsherr. Perpetual scowl. Distinct lack of any sort of personality beyond budding psychopath. He keeps going through roommates. It seems no-one can tolerate him for more than a month." The boy leans closer and offers up a hand. "I'm Stryker. Will Stryker."

"Charles. Xavier." Charles frowns.

"Do you know, I heard the only reason he has a scholarship here is because his mother apparently works for the Headmaster." He winks conspiratorially. "Although in what capacity, I do not know."

"Ignore Will," another boy cuts in, smacking Stryker lightly on the arm. "He's an asshole and he hates Lehnsherr because he hit him in the face for talking smack and cried like a girl afterwards. I'm Alex Summers. Charles - Charles is it?"

"Firstly, there was no crying," Stryker shoves Summers away. "Secondly, he's a brute who should have gotten expelled, and doesn't belong here in the first place, but I suppose it helps if your mother's the domestic help for the headmaster."

"I thought you didn't know what Erik's mother did," Charles says, but neither boy is listening to him. Charles taps lightly on Stryker's table until his attention returns to Charles. "Did he break your nose, Will. It looks it."

Stryker reddens. "You would do well not to make enemies in your first week here, Charles. Everyone needs friends."

"I suppose you're right," Charles says, turning back to the front of the class. "Everyone does."

*

Erik's nowhere to be seen in the refractory, and after Charles gobbles down a hasty lunch he wanders outside, drifts towards the edge of the school property.

"You shouldn't be here," Erik says.

"Neither should you. And definitely not smoking."

Erik inhales deeply and lets the smoke blow out, directly in Charles' face. Charles refuses to give him the satisfaction of grimacing as the smoke enters his lungs. "Are you going to tell on me, Xavier. It would hardly be the first time. One gets used to detention after a while."

"Yes, I imagine one does." He plucks the cigarette from Erik and puts it up to his own lips, dragging it in deep. It's too strong and he almost chokes, it's been a while since he's done this, but somehow he manages to pull through. Erik only looks amused though, and unimpressed. "Have you had your lunch yet?"

"Yes," Erik says, but evasively. He certainly doesn't look as if he eats lunch often. Or as if he eats much at all. "I am not going to be your friend, so stop trying."

"Rather presumptuous of you, isn't it."

Erik rescues the cigarette from Charles, but only toss it to the ground and stub it out with his booted feet. "I don't care, ya. Just leave me alone."

"Erik," Charles starts, but Erik is already stalking away, his strides long and angry as he makes his way back to the school.

*

He has exactly three classes with Erik: Physics, Advanced Calculus and History.

In History Charles slides into the seat next to him and beams. Erik offers him a stone-gazed glare, and Charles' grin falters a little, but he doesn't take it personally.

"Do you happen to know where the teacher stopped last session? I hope I've not missed too much of the semester."

"Page fifty-six," Erik responds gruffly. "There's no talking once Miss Frost enters the class."

"The Headmaster's assistant is also our History teacher? That's interesting."

"Putting it mildly." A hint of a smile crosses his face. "Miss Frost's teaching methods are. You'll see."

Mostly it would seem Miss Frost is interested in - Charles can't remember. And hour later he's standing outside the class as students stream past him and with a burgeoning headache. He catches Erik by the collar of his jacket as he passes by. Erik looks, briefly, as if he wants to have a violent reaction to the touch, but he settles down when Charles releases him. "What just happened there?"

"An hour listening to her drone on about the atomic bomb not enough for you, Xavier."

"All I remember is we were in there and now we're out here." He pinches the bridge of his nose wearily. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Not as far as I recall." Now he looks confused as well, but he only shrugs. "I have to go to my next class. You should head towards yours as well."

"Right, of course."

"The opposite direction."

"No, yes." Charles turns around abruptly and heads down the hallway, away from Erik. That was strange.

*

Erik is at his usual spot under his favorite tree. He frowns when Charles approaches and says, "Why do you keep ignoring me when I keep telling you to leave me alone."

"I brought you lunch," Charles says, holding out half of his sandwich. "It's chicken," he adds.

A faint smile crosses Erik's face. "I hate chicken." He takes the sandwich gingerly from Charles' hand though, hands him his cigarette in exchange. Charles takes a drag on it and settles in next to Erik, the bark of the tree rough through his blazer. "Don't we see enough of one another, Xavier. There are surely other friends you can make." His gaze slides over Charles as he takes a bite. "You look the type that fits in well."

Charles feels heat rise from under his collar, but he barrels through, the way he always does. "Looks can be deceiving," he says. "Take yourself for example. If I didn't know you any better I'd think you were rather terrifying."

"And somehow you imagine I'm not?" The faint smile is back, and there's even a hint of amusement in hie eyes. Charles starts to relax. He takes another drag of the cigarette and throws his head back, attempts to make smoke rings. "Well?"

"Do you mind if I join you again for lunch tomorrow?"

"Could I stop you?"

"Probably not, but I do think asking is polite."

Erik has finished the sandwich. He holds out his hand and Charles passes him back his cigarette. "Do what you want," Erik says, putting the cigarette to his lips.

He takes that as a yes.

*

Charles dreams. He's on his belly, face down on a hard surface and a man is draped heavily on top of him. "Don't move," the man says, his voice soft, smooth and warm. "That's it, that's my boy. You like this, do you like this? Tell me." There's a hand over his mouth so he can't reply, but he tries, anyway. Screams and screams because it hurts, it's like being torn apart from the inside out, like being lit on fire and dying, make it stop make it sto-

"Xavier, hey - Xavier." Charles lashes out but hands, different hands, hold him down easily, and when he finally opens his eyes Erik is staring down at him. His hair is in disarray, tumbling over his forehead and into his eyes. "Are you all right," he asks.

"I'm - I was. I'm fine. Would you please let me go." He tries to turn his wrists, but Erik is far too strong.

"If you promise to try not to hit me again."

"I promise."

Erik releases him abruptly, and Charles rubs at his wrists as he sits up slowly. "I was dreaming," he says, clutching at his shirt. It's soaked through with sweat.

"Were you."

"I don't, I don't remember what about."

"I don't remember asking." He rises from Charles' bed and returns to his own. "Go back to sleep, Charles. Try not to wake me again with your screaming. We have early classes tomorrow."

"Sorry," Charles mutters. "Sorry." He hunkers down and tries to return back to sleep, but he can't, so eventually he just gives up and watches as Erik's breath evens out, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps.

*

"Now of course if this school had any standards - Ah, Charles, we were just discussing your roommate."

Charles blinks at Stryker as he sets his books down on the table. It's unfortunate that he's too late to class to choose a seat further away from him. "What exactly were you discussing," he asks warily.

Stryker guffaws, and even Summers smiles, though there's a flush of quickly buried shame in it. Charles can't figure Summers out. Boys like Stryker he understands, the petty bullies are always easy, but Charles wouldn't put Summers down as the type. He's on scholarship as well, although Charles has yet to discern why. "Don't you know, Charles," Stryker says finally. "Lehnsherr's a Jew."

"Is he?" Charles frowns, and flips open his book.

"Is that all you have to say," Stryker asks, a few minutes later, when Charles has already prepared himself for most of the upcoming class.

"Oh, were you expecting something else? Sorry, no."

"Fine," Stryker says, and slams his own book down on the table. "You make your bed, Xavier."

"Don't we all," and he can't quite help rolling his eyes. He opens his mouth to say more, but Summers coughs quietly, and in the end Charles just pointedly ignores the two of them for the rest of the class.

*

He doesn't see Erik for the entire day, not even during meal times, so he packs a light supper for him before he returns to the room.

Erik is on his bed, eyes closed and hands tucked behind his head. "I didn't see you today," Charles says casually, setting the plate down on Erik's table. "Did you eat at all?" A grunt is the only response. Charles takes it as a no. "I brought you food," he says, poking dubiously at the plate. "I think it's kosher."

Erik says, after a long beat, "Nothing in this place is kosher."

"I don't -" Charles clears his throat and tries again. "I don't care, if you're -"

"I feel so blessed," Erik cuts in. His eyes are finally open, glittering and framed darkly by his lashes as he glares at Charles.

"You don't have to be rude about it," Charles mutters.

Erik sighs. "What is it you want from me exactly, Xavier."

"Well, obviously nothing that you would care to give, Lehnsherr." Charles makes a show of pulling a book out of his bag and slamming it down on the table, opening it blindly without being able to read a word. After a while he glances up surreptitiously and Erik's eyes are closed once again, the set of his jaw hard and unyielding.

Charles eats all the food, out of spite more than hunger, and embarrassment. He goes to bed with a stomach that's uneasy and roiling and doesn't fall asleep for for far too long, watching the shape of Erik's body as he twists and turns in his sleep.

*

The mail arrives and Charles clutches at the package he's given, avoiding the crush of other students as he makes his way back to the room. Erik is sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up, head back as he listens to one of Charles' Miles Davis records. "I hope you don't mind," he says, as Charles settles his box down on his own bed.

"No, of course not. I would have transported my entire room here if it were possible." Charles sighs. "Mother put her foot down when the books filled more than two trunks though. Do you have a cutter?"

Erik finally looks at Charles. "Is there mail," he says, tilting his head. He points at the bottom left corner of his desk.

"Yes." Charles says, kneeling down to open the drawer and rummage inside of it. "I asked about you, but they said you didn't have any. This is a dagger, Erik." He holds the knife up, pulls it out of its leather sheath. "Why would you own something like this?"

"There's no letter for me. Are you certain." He stands up abruptly and storms out, before Charles can reply.

By the time Charles has unpacked his box, carefully because Erik makes noises even when it's a mess only created on Charles' side of the room, it's almost dusk.

The box is mostly filled with chocolates and cakes plus some books he'd forgotten to bring; Charles had to call every day before he finally managed to get one of the help to send him the books. He'd always assumed previously that the head cook at least enjoyed his company a fair bit, but he'd been barely able to get her on the line as well.

When the door opens Charles doesn't look up before asking, "Would you like some chocolate, Erik. There's this fantastic stuff my mother imports from Switzerland."

"I hate chocolate," Erik snaps, hurling himself back onto his bed. Charles glances at him, then pauses. Erik is pale and disheveled, his usually immaculate hair mussed up and his shirt out of his pants. There's an envelope clutched in his right hand.

"Ah, did they forget to pass me your letter after all," Charles asks.

Erik only closes his eyes and turns his cheek into the pillow. "Could you please stop talking for a minute, Charles. Just the minute."

"How can you not like chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate," Charles says, but too soft for Erik to hear.

*

Charles dreams. He's on his knees, and the man is going, "You're such a good boy. Look how perfect you are." A hand in his hair, and he's choking, and bile rises, but he just keeps on trying. He has to, he has to, he can't be a failure he has too much to lose his Ma will be heartbroken. When the man comes, it's hot on Charles' face, and Charles rears back, but the man only leans down, and his tongue is soft but his teeth are sharp when he eats it off him.

Charles keeps trying to look at his face, but his eyes are squeezed shut and he can't seem to force them to open. Open your eyes, open your eyes. "You can open your eyes," the man says, but that only makes him close them tighter. "That's fine," and he sounds deeply amused. "You're shy. I understand that. It's endearing, to be quite honest." A hand reaches into his pants, and Charles attempts to pull away but his body won't listen, his body just arches into it as if it wants to, as if this has happened before.

And again, and again. "Relax," and, "Look how beautiful you are, look how much you want this."

Charles doesn't wake up screaming this time.

Instead he has to sneak into the bathroom with a hastily grabbed towel, and by the time he's cleaned himself off he's stopped shaking. The pajama pants he considers throwing in with the rest of the laundry, but in the end he just balls them up and stuffs them down the chute.

In the mirror, his eyes are red-rimmed and there are dark circles under them. He peers closer, and his face seems shiny, maybe, as if it's been recently licked. Charles opens his mouth, examines the back of his throat for any sort of damage; it had hurt, he felt it against the back of his throat, hard and relentless, but there's nothing at all that indicates any kind of damage.

After a while, he just stumbles back into his room. Erik's awake, sitting up, nothing more than a dark shadow lit against the moonlight. "Bad dreams again," he asks. His voice sounds hoarse.

Charles clutches at the towel around his waist. "Yes."

"You must miss your mother." He pauses. "It's not so bad here. You get used to it."

"It isn't that," Charles says. He sits down on the edge of Erik's bed and Erik shifts uncomfortably, but doesn't tell him to get away. "I don't miss her at all," he tells Erik, quite truthfully. "And I suspect she's forgotten me already as well. It will be a surprise when I come home, she'll wonder when she gave birth to a son."

"Surely that's not true." Erik puts his hand, tentatively, on Charles' shoulder, and Charles only just manages not to flinch away. "I miss my mother every day."

"I thought," Charles starts. "I thought that she worked for Headmaster Shaw."

"Yes, but in his country estate. It was very generous of him to let me come here. He had no reason to vouch for me, my grades aren't the best."

"Yes, but you're really smart," Charles says earnestly. "You could do anything you wanted if you just set your mind to it."

Erik's bark of laughter is sharp, like a bullet or the edge of a knife. "Do you honestly believe that, Charles. If so then you're painfully naive."

"Yes, but you're here, aren't you." Charles has had his future mapped out for him almost as far back as he can remember. It's not even that Mother particularly cares, but the expectations were always heavily implied in almost every conversation they had about school. Anything at all, so long as it's at a respectable school and he graduates well. At some point the ambition had become his own, but he can't recall exactly when. Any alternative has never occurred to him. "And when you graduate. Surely there are scholarship options if you can't -"

"Shut it." Erik scoots down on the bed until he's lying flat, turns his back towards the wall. "Go back to bed, Charles. And leave me alone."

*

Charles brings out his chess set, sets it up by the table next to the window. Erik ignores it for about two days, but one evening Charles finds him sitting by it, idly holding the white queen in his hand. "The set belonged to my father," Charles tells him, taking the seat across from him. "He taught me how to play."

"And he gave you the set?" He sets the piece back down.

"No, he died. And I stole it from his study before I came here." Charles grins. "I doubt the stealing was necessary, it's unlikely my mother would have objected, but then again. Sometimes she's sentimental over the oddest things." Erik looks thoughtful, and Charles says, "She loved him far more than she loved me, you see. And I remind her of what she lost."

"They took my father away," Erik says, turning to look out the window. "They came and took him away, and it was as if he never existed at all. Then Seb came along and helped us come here, before the war - before it became worse."

"Erik -"

"It's your move, Charles."

"What? Oh." He stares at the board, tries to focus, but in the end he just slides a pawn across the board at random and waits for Erik to make his next move.

*

Charles dreams. "I did warn you what would happen if you disobeyed me, didn't I? Tell me, will you do so again."

"No, I won't. I promise. Please, please." He's babbling, but he doesn't care. It hurts, that's all he cares about, it hurts and he's a disappointment and everyone will find out and, "I will do anything," he says, making his voice as firm, as clear and as convincing as he possibly can. "Anything you ask, sir."

Hard fingers against his chin. "Then scream for me, boy."

He screams and he screams, and when he opens his eyes Erik is once again staring down at him. Charles lashes out, but this time Erik only avoids his flailing hands until he exhausts himself and gives up. "It was just a dream, Charles."

"I was - it was more than that. It felt real."

Erik rubs at his face. "The only thing real was your fist hitting my jaw. You have quite the right hook for someone that weighs as little as you do."

"Sorry," Charles mumbles. He brings his hands to his face, wipes the tears away. "I don't know why this keeps happening. I promise you I don't usually wake up screaming -"

"It's fine," Erik says. "Happens to the best of us."

He moves to stand, but Charles grabs at his shirt, twists the thin material in his fingers. "Don't leave," he whispers, a plea more than anything else. "Please don't leave."

"I'll just be nearby, Charles," Erik says, jerking his head in the direction of his bed. He makes no attempt to move though, and his breathing harshens, just slightly.

"No, you can -" He slides over to make room. The bed is small, but neither one of them is that big. It'll fit, if they squeeze together. "Please." He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to close his eyes and fall asleep again, in case he starts dreaming again.

Erik blinks warily, his lips twisting up slightly. "I'm not," he says, and he sounds angry now. But when Charles only keeps holding on to him, even when he puts his own fingers over Charles' wrist and gently tries to pull it away, he only sighs and collapses down onto the bed.

"Just for tonight," he says, twisting so he's as far away from Charles as he possibly can be. Which isn't very far, and eventually he seems to realize that and his arms come up to wrap around Charles' waist. Charles rests his head on Erik's chest, listens to the steady beat of his heart. He's drifting away when Erik asks, so soft Charles barely catches it, "You want to tell me about your dreams, Charles."

"No," Charles replies, digging in closer still. His skin feels clammy, but everywhere Erik touches he heats up, as if his body is made up of nothing less than sunshine. "I just want to sleep."

"All right."

*

The school apparently has a championship-winning varsity swim team. Charles is uninterested in competitive sport, as much as he is disinclined to share the Olympic-sized pool with fifty other boys. Which is how he ends up sidling up to the assistant coach, making conversation until he's agreed to lend him his spare set of keys to the pool. "I'm not even sure why I'm doing this," he grumbles, as he removes the key from his drawer and Charles beams at him. "Shaw will kill me if he finds out or something happens to you. Only when the pool is locked up, you hear? I'll give you the schedule."

"I do promise not to drown," Charles says solemnly as he makes a beeline for the door before the man changes his mind. "Thanks a lot, Coach Grey."

Coach only continues to look vaguely befuddled. Charles forgets him soon enough, makes full use of the hour a day that he has. It's what he misses most about home, both the swimming and the solitude. Not that the solitude is anything new, but it's different when he's cutting through the water and there's nothing but the sound of his body moving and his own breath in his ears.

Once, he's swimming back from the other side and Erik is sitting at the far end of the pool, pants rolled up to his knees and legs submerged in the water. Charles waves at him, and when he's near enough Erik says, "So this is where you disappear to every day."

Charles props his elbows on the tiles and smiles up. "You should join me," he says.

"No, thanks. How'd you manage to get in here anyway, it's always locked."

"Coach Gray gave me the keys. Won't you join me?"

"Why on earth would he do that?"

Charles kicks back from the edge of the pool, starts treading water. "Charm and good looks?"

"You're not charming or good looking enough," Erik points out. When Charles schools his face into a look of affrontment he adds, "Coach Gray hates everyone. He most likely eats kittens when he's not drowning puppies for sport. I ask again."

"I suppose I just got him on the rare day when he was in a good mood." Charles swims to the edge once more, closer to Erik this time. "Come in, Erik. We still have a half hour or so. Or can't you swim?"

Erik flushes slightly.

"Ah. Can you float?"

"My people aren't known for their buoyancy," Erik mutters, inching slightly away from Charles.

Charles laughs and splashes water at him. "Just get in, Erik. You need to learn how to tread water at least. In case you ever get trapped on a sinking boat."

"I have no intention of ever getting on any such thing," Erik says, but there's a smile starting to creep across his face. "I don't have trunks in any case, and unlike you my closet isn't filled with ten pairs of identical pants."

"You can take your pants off," Charles points out. When Erik continues to look hesitant he says, "I'll look away." He turns his head, doesn't turn until there's a soft splash in the water. Erik's got his back to him, fingers clutched against the tile. The muscles in his shoulders are bunched together tightly, and he flinches when Charles lays a hand between them. "I promise not to let you drown."

"And how do you intend to keep that promise?" He shoots an annoyed glare in Charles' direction. "You hardly look as if you can even save your own self from drowning."

"Trust me," Charles says, as calmly as he can. "I've got you." He wraps slippery arms around Erik, and surprisingly enough, Erik allows himself to be pulled away from the edge.

"Is this how you plan to teach me how to swim, Charles. By manhandling." Erik asks, his voice tightly drawn.

"If you struggle, we'll both go under," Charles says.

Erik nods his head, obeys Charles' instructions to let his body go limp. "It would be a tragedy if that happened," he says. "But when's the swimming lesson going to start."

Charles presses his cheek against Erik's and tightens his arms briefly. "I will let you go soon enough," he says, but he doesn't, and Erik only sighs softly, relaxes further into him.

*

Charles dreams. He's lying on a couch, being kissed, softly, sweetly, a tongue down his throat and a hand on his cock. He groans and arches his back, curls up into the hand, desperately seeking out more. "Patience," the man says, pulling away. "You're getting so greedy. But I like it. I like how you look at me nowadays. I told you, you're made for this." Charles eyes are wide open, but he still can't see the man's face. It's just shadows, the dark fall of hair over his forehead. The man holds his fingers to Charles' mouth and Charles opens it obligingly, sucks on them until they're good and wet. "That's good, so good," as Charles holds his legs wide open, braces himself.

He opens his eyes, and says, "Erik? Are you asleep?" There's no response, but it's too still on the other side of the room. "Erik."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to wake me."

"If you were already sleeping you wouldn't have answered. It's not as if I yelled out your name."

"I'm a light sleeper." The bedsprings creak as Erik shifts, and even that sounds annoyed. "Another nightmare, I take it."

"Would you."

"No."

"Please." He sounds pitiful to his own ears, but he can't help himself. The bedsprings shift once again, and soft footsteps pad towards him. "Thank you," he says, as he moves aside to make room for Erik. Erik snorts, but his hand rubs against Charles' back soothingly, and at some point he starts singing, mostly under his breath. Charles strains to catch the words, but they're in German so he won't understand anyway. "What do they mean," he asks sleepily, as he starts to drift off, lulled by Erik's touch and his voice.

"It's just a lullaby, it means nothing," Erik says. "Go to sleep, Charles."

*

Mother comes to visit on a parental visitation weekend. Charles tells Erik, "I can't believe she's coming, she must have some ulterior motive."

Erik only looks out the window and says distantly, "Possibly she wants to see her only child."

Charles snorts as he sorts through his closet, searching for a scarf. "You've not met my mother." When Erik doesn't respond he stops. "Is your mother coming?"

"No, she isn't." There's a flash of hard anger in his eyes as he turns to look at Charles, but then it's gone and perhaps Charles imagined it entirely. "She's busy, unfortunately." His face cracks briefly. "She'll come down the next time, I'm sure."

"Oh Erik. I'm sorry." He walks over and puts his hand tentatively on Erik's arm and Erik jerks away.

"Don't," he says gruffly. "You should go. You'll be late. And the scarf you're looking for is under your bed where you left it."

Charles drops to his hands and knees and peers. "Ah, you're right. There it is." He pulls the scarf out and gets to his feet, wrapping it around his throat after shaking out any residual dust.

When he leaves, Erik is still staring out the window.

*

"Lehnsherr," Mother says, a frown creasing her face. "Is that German?"

"German and Jewish as well, actually," Charles says.

She grimaces, then sighs. "Well, if they let him in he must come from a respectable family."

"Does it matter?"

"Am I to be subject to another one of your ridiculous notions, Charles. It's bad enough I allow you to listen to all that music you listen to, and the literature you insist is educational."

Charles flushes. Everything seems so silly now. He considers responding truthfully for a brief moment, but in the end he only says, "Did you come here for a reason, Mother."

"Well of course dear, why wouldn't a mother want to visit her only son."

"Yes," Charles replies. "Why wouldn't she."

Back in their room, he rages, as Erik impassively continues to study his notes, "Remarriage," he spits. "To a Marko of all people."

"Are they not from a family you approve of?"

Charles stops in his angry pacing to blink wildly at him. "Oh no, I absolutely welcome the addition of a drunken lout and his beastly, ill-mannered spawn to my family. Dammit Erik would you pay attention for a while."

"I apologize for not paying the appropriate amount of attention to your whining." He puts his pencil down and crosses his arms across his chest. "Go on, please."

"I -" Charles says, at a brief loss for words. "Fine," he says finally. "I'll just leave if I'm disturbing you so much." He stomps out and fumes all the way to the library, hides there until it's time for closing and they chase him out.

When he returns Erik is sitting at the window, staring at the chess set.

"I'm sorry," Charles says, blushing as he takes his usual seat across from him. "I was being self-involved."

"No, I." Erik rubs at his face wearily, and his smile is wan. "I miss my mother," he says. "I didn't mean to be short with you."

Charles bites his lip. "Do you want to play?"

"Could we just sit here for a while, Charles."

"Yes of course," Charles says, and this time when he reaches forward to touch Erik's arm he doesn't pull away.

*

Charles dreams. He's being held down and he struggles against straps that are too tight, but they won't give. He wants to scream, but his mouth is already open and he can't. A man leans over him, says, "This is for your own good, you need to relax." There's a drill in his hand. Another hand, soft and comforting, brushes over his hair. Charles tries to jerk away but his head is immobile as well. He jerks his gaze upwards, but all he can see is a peripheral flash of silver. He can feel it though; the metal vice holding his head still, the metal in the instrument the man is bringing closer towards him. All the metal in the room, surrounding him.

He wakes up blinking away tears, listening to his own harsh breathing until Erik says, and he sounds as if he hasn't slept at all, "Do you want me to come over."

"Yes please." Charles sniffles slightly, wiping quickly at his face so Erik won't see. "I'm sorry. I'm behaving inappropriately."

"You don't have to keep apologizing," Erik says, as Charles makes room for him. He knows exactly how much room to leave at this point, knows that Erik won't protest when Charles clutches at him, buries his face into his chest.

"But I feel stupid," Charles says, his voice muffled by Erik's shirt. And afraid. He's so very afraid, sometimes. Even Erik feels fragile, as strong and as warm as he is, his arm wrapped reassuringly around him. "You can leave when I fall asleep."

"You always say that."

"I know. I mean it this time." He shifts closer to Erik and says drowsily, "You smell nice."

Erik snorts. "It's sweat," he says, but as Charles drifts off he's almost certain that soft lips graze at his temple fleetingly.

*

Erik goes through Charles' record collection and insists on playing a different one each night, carefully removing it from its sleeve and placing it on the player. "Sorry about the pitiful selection," Charles tells him. "I had to leave most of the records behind except for my favorites. Not enough space."

"No, it's." He smiles faintly. "It's fine. What do you feel like tonight, Charles."

"I don't know. Surprise me." He gets up from his chair and watches as Erik sets the needle. "Moonlight Serenade, really."

"What?"

Charles holds out his hand. "Well that's just unfortunate, because now you'll have to dance with me."

The look Erik shoots him is one of incredulousness mixed with amusement.

"Don't tell me I'll have to teach you how to dance as well, Erik. Surely you know how to do that at least." In response, Erik only grabs his outstretched hand and tugs him close, sliding one arm around his waist. Charles laughs and falls into step. "So I would normally lead."

"No."

"All right." He places his head tentatively on Erik's shoulder as they glide, mostly awkwardly, across the small empty space in the middle of the room, and when Erik doesn't immediately pull away, he exhales.

"My Ma taught me. She used to say that's how my Pa got her to fall for him and you don't know when you'll meet the girl of your dreams so it helps to be prepared."

"Is that what you want, Erik," Charles asks, as Erik's hand presses against the small of his back. "Find a girl, fall in love, get married."

"Is that not what everyone wants?"

"I suppose." Charles lifts his head as the record skips, judders to a halt.

Erik releases him and lets his arms fall to his sides. "Song's over," he says, but he doesn't step away.

"Yes it is," Charles says.

*

Charles returns to his room from class and there's a lit cupcake on his desk but no Erik to be found. Charles waits as long as he can, but is startled awake at dusk, by the door opening. "How did you know it was my birthday," Charles asks, picking up the cupcake and trying to rescue it from pieces of melted wax.

"You mentioned it."

"That was ages ago."

"I didn't forget." He tosses a package in Charles' lap. "Here."

"Erik, you shouldn't have." He licks frosting off his fingers and offers the cupcake up to Erik, who ignores it in favor of dissolving into his favorite chair. Charles puts it back down and lifts the package to his ear.

"Are you shaking it to see if it's going to explode?"

"Shut it," Charles says. "My father used to make me guess what my gifts were before I opened them. In most cases it was more fun than the gifts themselves." He carefully opens the box, continues ruefully, "But I suppose I'm too old for that now."

"I couldn't buy you anything," Erik says.

"I'm sure whatever- oh, Erik." The watch is familiar, it's one he slides into his coat pockets or pants whenever he can, as broken as it is, both the clasp and its ability to tell the time. Charles picks it up and turns it over, the inscription on the back still reads, _To Brian, all my love, Sharon._ He holds the watch up to the light and the metal gleams, as if it had been forged only yesterday. "How did you do this."

Erik shrugs. "Just messed about. I'm good with metal."

Charles slides the watch onto his wrist and closes its delicate clasp. It fits perfectly, but then he hadn't expected anything less. "Do you want to play a game of chess?"

"Is this how you want to spend your birthday?"

"I honestly cannot think of anything else I would rather do," Charles says.

"All right. Happy sixteenth, Charles."

*

Charles opens his eyes. He's standing in pitch darkness, in a place that feels strange and damp, the air stale when he inhales. Charles fumbles blindly in front of him and hits what feels like a door, but he can't push it open and he can't find a doorknob. It must be a dream. Bile rises in his throat as he tells himself, it must be a dream, he will wake up any moment now -

"Ah," he shields his eyes as a bright light shines in them. When his eyes finally adjust Miss Frost is five feet away from him, holding on to a flashlight. Even in the dimness he can feel her glare.

"Xavier. What on earth are you doing here?"

"I was -" Charles has no answer for her. "Where are we?" He glances around, but all he can make out is brick walls slimy with moss on both sides. A corridor, then.

"We are in the basement. Very far away from where you are supposed to be."

Charles feels dizzy. His heart is beating too fast and his breath is coming in short, panicked bursts. "I don't know how I got here," he says, and his voice sounds small and scared. "I was sleeping."

Miss Frost doesn't seem impressed. She steps forward and grabs him by the arm, her grip tight and almost painful. "Sleepwalking is no excuse for trespassing."

"It's not as if I could help myself," Charles says, as she drags him up a short flight of steps and into the main building. "You are dressed very inappropriately, by the way," he says, when she slams the basement door shut behind her. Miss Frost's classes continue to be queer, although at least he remembers them nowadays. Charles struggles to get his breathing under control, and he finally manages it. The resulting calmness is almost a miracle, he'd come this close to crying.

"Delightful as usual, Xavier." She points with the flashlight in the direction of the senior dorms. "I trust you can make your way back to your room without further incident. Headmaster Shaw will want a word with you, I'm certain."

"I'm certain as well," Charles mutters. "Goodnight, Miss Frost."

When Charles finally makes it back to his room, there's no familiar lump in the bed next to him. "Erik," Charles calls out, stupidly. He crawls under the covers of the bed, fear rising in him once again. Erik returns shortly enough, the handle turning almost silently as he enters. Charles sits up and asks, "Where were you?"

He can't see Erik's face clearly from the light of the moon, but he doesn't dare turn on the light. "I was in the bathroom, Charles. Go back to sleep."

"You were not in the bathroom," Charles says, unable to keep the accusation from his voice.

"It's no business of yours where I was." When Erik gets upset or excited, his accent becomes stronger. He sounds properly German now, his repeated "Go back to sleep," low and rough.

"I can't."

"Did you have another dream?"

"No, not exactly," Charles says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound short."

Erik sits down next to him and sighs. "It's not your fault." He's silent for a long while, and when he speaks it's to say, "I forget things sometimes. And sometimes I remember them wrong. I don't know what happens."

Charles opens the covers and moves aside, invites Erik in. When they're nestled in next to one another, his front to Erik's back, Charles dares to wrap a tentative arm around his waist. Erik stiffens, but he doesn't move away, and eventually his body relaxes and his breathing evens out. Charles doesn't manage to fall asleep though, not for the longest time.

*

They're in the library, ostensibly doing research but mostly Charles is doodling on his notebook and stealing glances at Erik out of the corner of his eye. After a while Erik notices. "Do you actually need to be here," he asks, keeping his voice low even as his lip curls in exasperation.

"Not really," Charles admits. "I've already completed my essay."

"Well aren't you special," Erik shakes his head, but he sounds fondly amused now, not irritated. "How bored are you in class."

"Very. I wish it were more challenging." He twirls his pencil in his hands and waits for Erik to get that look in his eye, envy or anger or outright jealousy, but it doesn't come. Instead Erik only looks intrigued.

"Then why even go through with the charade."

"Because I'm not quite ready for adulthood I suppose." Charles worries at his lower lip. "Even the students are intimidating. I took a few classes once, some months ago."

"Charles," Erik says, "I've never met anyone more comfortable in their own skin than you. Surely you can handle students not much older, and brighter, than," he nods his head in the direction of Stryker and his friends, huddled around a long table that's exclusive to only the lot of them.

"Did you really break his nose," Charles asks.

Erik grins fleetingly. "Is that what you heard?"

"I've heard all sorts of things about you. You have quite the reputation, Mister Lehnsherr. Very scandalizing." Charles snaps his notebook shut. "If you're done, shall we go back to our room?"

"I'm done, but." He closes his own book slowly, gaze hooded and unreadable. "What do you imagine would happen there."

The color rises to Charles cheeks, all the way from his neck upwards. He only juts his chin out defiantly though. "I'm not ashamed," then adds, more hesitantly, "But if you - please don't hate me, even if -"

"Charles." Erik touches the inside of his wrist, just the once, and for the briefest of moments, but it's enough. "Let's go."

*

"Have you ever," Erik asks. They're on Charles' bed, shoes and shirts off and legs entwined, Erik laying kisses all over Charles' face and touching him, oh god Erik is touching him. Charles shakes his head no, pushes _on your knees - behave - do this now_ to the back of his head as forcefully as he can, shoves it in a box locked up tight. Kisses Erik again, and again, until Erik whimpers. "I didn't know it could be like this," Erik says, and he sounds distraught. "I thought - I thought."

"Do you want to stop. We can stop if you want."

"No." He buries his face in the crook of Charles' neck and hugs him tight. "I don't want to stop. I just want," his mouth hot against Charles' skin. "Like this."

"Yes." He takes Erik's hand in his and laces their fingers together. "Please."

*

Charles receives another package, and this time Erik helps him to open it up. "More chocolate," he says distastefully.

"Do you really not like it?" Charles rips open a bar and breaks off a piece. Or tears it off, it's halfway to melted and it sticks to his fingers as he offers his hand up to Erik..

"Bad memories," Erik says, but when Charles pulls his hand away he grabs at his wrist. "I suppose I could try some. It did come all the way from Switzerland after all." He licks carefully at chocolate coated fingers, and when Charles makes a sharp little trill he opens his mouth wider to allow the fingers to slip inside.

"We're making a mess," Charles says.

"Uh-huh. Come here." He tugs on Charles belt, pulls him into his lap. Charles giggles and squirms fitfully, but eventually he settles down, straddles Erik's lap and lets him taste tiny pieces of all the different types of chocolate, explaining each one to him in between kisses. "I think I like the dark chocolate one the most," Erik concludes finally. "That second to last one."

"Oh you would." Charles makes a face. "It's the most bitter. For purists only."

Erik laughs, then says, "Get up." He doesn't wait for Charles to comply, just grips him under his arms and hauls him up, sends them both stumbling to the bed. When Charles reaches for his clothes though Erik says, "Your hands are sticky."

"Oh. Okay." Charles lifts his hands above his head and twines them together. "There. Now I can't move."

"Not precisely," Erik says. His thumb slides across Charles' wrist as he seems to contemplate something, but after a while he just says, "It'll have to do, I suppose."

"What?"

Erik hesitates. "Why me?"

"I don't understand the question." Charles slides his leg up Erik's side, but Erik puts his hand on his belly and he stills.

"You could have had it far more easier here. Made the right friends. Get yourself transferred, the way everyone does eventually."

"I saw you," Charles says. "The first day. You were outside, smoking under your favorite tree. I was walking past, and I saw you."

Erik's brow furrows. "And."

"And. You looked as lonely as I felt." Charles lowers his lashes as Erik's breathing stills. "Can I move my arms now, please."

"No," Erik says, and kisses him.

*

"Ah, young Master Xavier," Headmaster Shaw says. "How nice of you to join me."

"I was commanded here," Charles replies shortly, slumping down into his chair and crossing his legs. "I could hardly say no."

Shaw only steeples his fingers. "I see you've settled in quite well here. To the point of sullenness, I must say. Master Lehnsherr must be an influence."

"Erik has nothing - is there something you wanted me for, Headmaster Shaw," Charles makes an attempt to be polite, and from Shaw's brilliant smile, he's succeeded at least somewhat.

"Your teachers have been telling me what an excellent student you are," Shaw says. "Very outspoken. That's good. So many young children nowadays are afraid to speak their minds. It's quite distressing, the lack of opinion." He reaches under his desk and emerges with a fishbowl, filled with wrapped lollipops in various bright colors. "Would you like one, son?"

"They're for the younger students, surely," Charles says, even as he reaches out idly and chooses a bright red lollipop. He's distracted by Shaw's huge cherrywood desk. It's strangely familiar, from the way the sunlight hits it to the way the grain feels beneath his fingertips. Charles loosens his collar as he breaks out in a sweat, the room bearing down on him in oppressive heat as he settles back into the chair.

"Are you quite all right, Charles?"

"I'm fine," Charles says. He unwraps the lollipop and shoves it into his mouth, the sickly sugary-sweet taste diverting his senses somewhat so he can breathe more easily. "You were saying," he mumbles, around the sweet.

"Ah, yes -" Shaw blinks slowly, his gaze focused on Charles' lips. "Your English teacher, Mrs. Jonas. She was wondering if perhaps you'd like to join the debate team. We've won several championships in the past year."

"Yes," Charles says, pulling the lollipop out so he can speak clearly. "I've seen the wall. And no, thank you, but I respectfully decline."

Shaw's brows draw together in surprise, and he stares frozen at Charles for the briefest of seconds, as if he's unused to rejection, which he most likely is. "This is a fantastic opportunity."

"I'm well aware of what it is. I'm really not interested in competitive sport, but again, thank you."

"It's hardly a sport," Shaw snaps, but then he shakes his head, and his smile slips back into place. "It's your choice, of course. I won't force you."

"Could I possibly go now?"

"Yes, of course. Don't let me stop you." He moves the fishbowl once again, tilts it towards Charles. "Take more of these, your roommate loves them."

*

When Erik returns back to their room, Charles is sitting with an open book on his knee. The lollipops are laid out in a row on Erik's obsessively neat desk. "Were you with Seb," he asks, paling slightly.

"Yes," Charles pulls his lollipop out of his mouth and uses it to point at the sweets. "They're yours. They're disgusting, but _Seb_ says you really like them."

"Did he," Erik says, his jaw tightening. He grabs them in a sweeping fist and tosses them into the wastebasket, before rounding on Charles to grab at the one in his hand.

"Hey, I wasn't finished with that," Charles protests mildly.

"They're bad for your teeth," Erik says, and Charles opens his mouth to argue, but he's silenced by the look on Erik's face.

*

Charles is on his way to the library when he hears the commotion. He rounds the corner in time to hear someone say, "He's gonna kill him for sure," and so it's not entirely a surprise when he sees Erik straddling Stryker, pounding his fists into his face.

He tries to push his way to the front of the gathering crowd, but Headmaster Shaw makes it there before him. He grabs Erik by the collar of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. Erik swings out wildly, but Shaw intercepts his fist as if it has no punch behind it at all, and Erik halts, breathing harsh and broken. "That's quite enough, Master Lehnsherr," he says. "Erik."

Erik's lower lip is split open, Charles notes dully, as the crowd finally parts so he can get ahead. The Headmaster is whispering something into Erik's ear, Charles can't hear it but Erik nods his head and deflates, all the anger draining out of him.

"I want this filthy brute expelled." Stryker finally staggers to his feet, spitting fury and humiliation. He looks far worse than Erik does, half his eye is swollen shut and his nose is bleeding profusely.

"Of course you do, honey." Ms. Frost glides out from behind a boy as if she had been there the whole time. She takes Stryker's hand and leads him away, says, "Come on, let's get you to the infirmary, shall we. We will fix you right up."

"Show's over," Headmaster Shaw says genially. "Everyone back to their rooms, go on. You too, Master Xavier," he continues, as everyone but Charles disperses. Charles remains rooted to the spot.

"Are you okay, Erik."

"He's fine. Aren't you, Master Lehnsherr."

Erik stares at the ground without replying.

"Maybe I should -"

"Xavier. Now."

Erik finally lifts his head to stare at Charles. His eyes are dark and unfathomable.

"Xavier," Headmaster Shaw repeats, and if anything his voice has gotten more pleasant, more treacly sweet.

"I'll wait up for you," Charles tells Erik and turns to flee, his heart in his chest bursting, as if it wants to claw its way out.

*

Charles paces worriedly for a while, hands shaking and eyes pricking with tears, but Erik doesn't return immediately, and by the time he does Charles has fallen onto the bed and is almost asleep. His face is even paler than earlier, but someone's cleaned up his lip and there's iodine over a cut on his eye. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you expelled?"

"Detention. I'm to personally assist Seb every afternoon until I've proven myself redeemed." His smile is twisted, wry.

"You really shouldn't -" Charles says. "You can't afford to."

"He won't expel me. Then he won't have -" He cuts himself off to sit down heavily on Charles' bed, then winces. Charles slowly reaches up and pulls him down, until Erik's back is pressed against his chest.

"So whatever did young Master Stryker do to deserve your wrath?"

"Nothing. I'm certain -" He stops. "I'm not a bastard. I don't care what he says about me. But my mother -"

"Will should talk. The things I've heard about his mother. It's no wonder he's such a spiteful beast, honestly. His lack of breeding tells."

"Where did you hear such things," Erik asks, stifling a yawn. "Do we need to have another conversation about your lack of friends."

"I have my means," Charles says. "Besides, I have you. I don't need any other friends."

"But maybe you should," Erik says quietly. "We spend too much time together. They might -"

"I don't care what anyone thinks."

"Of course you care, Charles," he says, and laughs, as if he knows exactly what a liar Charles is. "About this at least, you should certainly be wise enough to. Surely you can't want to spite your mother that much."

"I feel you don't quite understand the true depths of my resentment towards her." He pauses. "That's not why, though. Erik, you must -"

"I know, Charles."

"Do you think I'm naive? Or stupid?"

Erik laces Charles' fingers in his. "No," he says. "There's nothing about you that needs to change. You don't want to end up like me. It's not pleasant."

"I like who you are."

Erik's silent for a while, but when he speaks its only to say, "I'm so tired," and he sounds as if he's on the verge of tears. "This never ends."

Charles tightens his arm around Erik's waist and says, "Shh, it's okay. Everything will be fine, I promise."

Erik doesn't cry, in the end, but he doesn't fall asleep either. Instead he turns around in Charles arms and kisses him, slow and deep. He tastes - Charles shudders, pushes the thought violently away until it's only Erik.

*

Having to assist Headmaster Shaw in whatever capacity every afternoon leaves Erik short-tempered and distant, and even Charles can't pull him out of his funk some days. "Is he making you clean the toilets, then," Charles says, trying to keep his tone casual. There's a question that he wants to ask, a persistent shadow in the back of his mind that he can't bear to examine too closely, can't bear to - "Erik," he starts, clenching his fists as he feels his collar grow tight and hot.

"Stop it," Erik snaps. He puts a hand to his forehead. "One of these days," he mutters, mostly under his breath.

"You'll what." Charles dares to crawl tentatively onto Erik's bed, only to be dragged by the lapels of his blazer until he's in Erik's arms, back pressed against his chest.

"Nothing." There's something in his voice that's low and dark. Charles turns his head, but Erik's face only reflects studied blankness. His gaze softens though, and he plants a kiss against Charles' temple. "Didn't you say you had a gift for me?"

"Yes." Charles brightens. "You'll have to release me first."

"Right."

He allows Charles to reach into his bag, dropped carelessly at the foot of the bed. Charles emerges with the bottle and waves it triumphantly in Erik's face.

"Bourbon. Where did you-"

"Traded for it." He settles back into Erik's arms and refuses to elaborate, even when Erik pokes at his waist with an extended middle finger. Mostly because it didn't seem fair, the trade. A worthless book for a bottle of expensive bourbon. Not that Summers seemed to mind, he mostly wore a look of profound confusion when agreeing to it. Charles understood, but he wasn't about to question anything that left him on the better side of a bargain. "Stop it," he mewls, when Erik pokes at him again. "Or I won't share."

It's a lie, he unscrews the bottle and offers the first sip to Erik, who takes a gulp then makes a face. Charles reaches for the bottle back but Erik holds it out of his grasp, says, "Come here," before he takes another gulp and holds it in his mouth instead of swallowing.

They do nothing but trade wet, increasingly drunken kisses for a while, huddled together on the bed. The tension in Erik's face slackens a little, the sharp draw of his mouth relaxing as Charles traces his fingers along them.

"You're beautiful," Charles says.

Erik flinches slightly. "Don't say that. I'm not a girl. I'm not," he shudders and pulls away.

"What?" But he's too warm and sated to press the matter much, and especially not when Erik just shakes his head and drags him close once again, puts his head on Charles' shoulder. "I wish we could just stay like this forever," Charles says drowsily.

"Nothing's forever, Charles," Erik says. "At least, nothing good."

Charles groans. "Your positivity is killing. Stop talking and kiss me again."

Erik only laughs, but he complies eventually.

*

Charles dreams. He's in the woods, on his hands and knees, fingers clutched in the ground. The dirt is soft and wet underneath his fingers, and his eyes are focused on a tree, straight ahead. Hands gripped on his waist and no voice this time, just harsh breathing that might be his own or might be the man's. The hands release him and Charles pushes himself backwards, arching his back into it, "Please," he whispers. "Harder, you have to. I need to." But the man just moves even further away, and Charles ends up on the ground, rubbing at his eyes furiously. "Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you're boring me. No, that's definitely it."

"You can't. He's just a kid." The tears are coming in earnest now. Charles wipes at his face again, not caring that he's smearing his face with wet earth, not caring that he's lying on the ground with his pants around his ankles and his t-shirt off. Not caring at all, about anything else. He reaches out for the man, and the man steps out of his reach easily.

"Stop it. You're embarrassing yourself." Charles gives up and stares blankly at the ground, until a hand curves around the back of his neck.

"Don't worry, you'll always be my favorite. Erik, my boy. Look at me, son."

Charles opens his eyes.

*

The woods are dark and Charles has no idea where he's going, but he runs nonetheless. On the way out, someone tries to stop him, asks him, "Hey son, you shouldn't be here," but Charles thinks, _sleep_ , and the man falls to the ground silently, his eyes shut. Charles only pauses for a few seconds before moving on. Deep in, surely that's not right, but even when he tries to circle back he only gets further lost. It's a miracle then, that he stumbles into the clearing. Or perhaps it isn't so much, Headmaster Shaw smiles at him as if he's been expecting Charles, waiting for him to show up. "Ah, the dashing Master Xavier," he says. "What a pleasant surprise."

Charles falters, halts in his steps. Erik's sitting near a tree, his feet drawn up to his chest and body curved inwards, arms tight around his legs. "Erik," Charles says, but Erik doesn't raise his head. "Erik, are you all right?"

"Oh, him? He's fine." Shaw waves his hand in Erik's direction.

He sighs when Charles ignores him to run towards Erik, collapsing to his knees to wrap his arms around Erik's still form. Erik's body is cold, and he's shivering slightly. Charles wishes he'd thought to bring a blanket; he removes his sweatshirt and says quietly, "Put this on. You'll fall ill."

Erik turns his head, and under the faint light of the moon his eyes are bleak. "You shouldn't have come here, Charles. I wish you wouldn't have."

"Put on the sweatshirt, Erik." Erik only puts his head back onto his knees, so Charles wraps the shirt around his back and hugs him tight, tries to transfer as much body heat as he possibly can.

Shaw is saying something, but Charles doesn't listen until he's close enough to cast a shadow. He looks up as Shaw looms over them, beaming. "Telepathy," he says. "How very fascinating. I suspected, Emma said she felt it about you, but this. Sharing dreams. You must be far more powerful than I'd thought. We are going to have so much fun together." He kneels down, and Charles shrinks away, tightening his arms around Erik's unresisting form. "Tell me, Charles. Did you enjoy it as much as young Erik here did. Did you wish it were more than just a dream. You didn't even seem to be aware of what you were doing." He sighs, a sigh of great disappointment. "And here I'd pinned all my hopes on Erik."

"Leave him alone." Erik's voice is soft, but firm. He lifts his chin, glares up at Shaw. "You could - you can always have me. Leave him alone."

"Yes, but why would I settle, when I can have you both." His fingers grip on Charles' arm, Charles gasps and tries to wrench himself away but Shaw is so strong he can't even move without it hurting. "Can't I, my dear boy."

"I will tell," Charles snarls. "I'll tell everyone, don't think I will. Everyone will know -" The backhand hits him right in the mouth, his head spins and he tastes blood, warm and coppery in his mouth. Beside him, Erik flinches. Charles manages to pull free and he scrambles back, dragging Erik along with him as much as he can.

"You will do no such thing," Shaw says easily. And then Charles hears it, although Shaw's lips aren't moving at all: Fight me, and I will destroy him. I do understand, you will most likely be fine, the Xavier name comes with certain advantages. But Erik. Ask me what I want, Charles.

Charles just stares at him, until Shaw says, out loud this time. "Ask me."

"What do you want?"

"Come here."

*

They shower together, after. Erik turns the water to almost scalding point, and Charles scrubs and scrubs at his own skin until Erik finally takes the soap away and folds him into his arms, whispers, "I think you're clean enough, come on, let's get you to bed." He allows Erik to dry him and wrap him in a bathrobe, lead him silently to their room.

"I'm cold."

"I know. Lie down, you'll feel better." But Charles only sits at the edge of the bed, until Erik gently pushes him down. He kisses Charles on the temple and says, "Do you want me to lie with you." Charles shakes his head, but when Erik moves to his own bed it gets even colder still.

"I wanted to show you," Erik begins haltingly. "I know, it's meaningless now. But I want you to know." He throws a coin up into the air. Charles watches its progress as it slowly arcs upwards, then halts, hovering directly above Erik's palm. It falls slowly, drifts in between Erik's fingers and under his hand and then up again, until Erik finally clenches his fist around it.

"I see," Charles says. "That's." That's amazing, he wants to say, but he can't formulate the words. Everything falls into place, all the puzzle pieces fitting together suddenly and without respite. His eyelids are getting heavy, and he can't keep them open open for much longer. But maybe at least now the dreams might stop. Charles yawns.

"You should rest."

"Erik." Charles pauses.

"Yes?"

"Did you tell him? Shaw. Did you tell him about my dreams?"

"I -" Erik's voice deepens, grows hoarse. "I didn't know they meant anything. I promise you. I just thought, I thought." He stops, for the longest time, and when he speaks again it's to say tiredly, "It's complicated, Charles. I owe him a debt. My family, my Ma. I'm sorry." Something dark flickers across his face, and across his mind as well. Charles can see that now. Words and shapes and images, pain and such unimaginable rage Charles can barely fathom it; he pulls back and it stops, the air returns back to the room. "I need to protect my Ma first," Erik says. "I need to -"

"You don't need to do anything."

Erik stands abruptly to cross the room, kneeling at the bed so their faces are close together. Charles reaches out and palms his cheek and he turns into it, his lips brushing across Charles' skin.

Charles drops his hand, but brings it up again to touch the tears on Erik's face. "I wish you wouldn't cry."

"Shouldn't I," Erik says, and he sounds bitter, and scared, but mostly he sounds angry. "All those times, I wish I had stopped him -"

"It's not your fault," Charles says. "You were alone then."

"I'm still alone."

"No you're not." Erik moves closer, until their foreheads are pressed together, and Charles can feel him trembling, desperate and quiet. "You have me now," Charles says, and he finally closes his eyes.


End file.
